


The end of the beginning

by devilscut



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Attempted Rape/Non-Con, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Pre-Slash, Weechesters
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-06
Updated: 2014-01-06
Packaged: 2018-01-07 18:18:11
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,121
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1122860
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/devilscut/pseuds/devilscut
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Winchesters are on the road one night when they refuel at a truck stop.  It is here that innocence is shattered when Dean encounters a monster of the worst kind... a human one.</p><p>It's up to John and Sammy to help Dean, little does anyone know that these are the events that shape the man he is to become.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Sammy is 6 and Dean is 10 in this work.
> 
> For something completely different I've been working on Teen Wolf fics for a while now and wanted to return to my other loves the Winchester boys.
> 
> The title is based on a quote from Sir Winston Churchill:
> 
> 'Now this is not the end. It is not even the beginning of the end. But, it is perhaps the end of the beginning.'
> 
> Unbeta'ed.
> 
> ** It's all about Dean, always was - always will be. **

John watched as Dean gently shut the Impala’s door, all the time checking that his little brother was still asleep where he sprawled on the backseat. 

 

It never ceased to amaze him how devoted Dean was to Sammy.   Sure he bitched and moaned about being his brother’s keeper but John always suspected that the majority of the time it was just piss and wind, that Dean didn’t want anyone to know just how much he truly cared for Sammy.

 

Dean mumbled something under his breath that John couldn’t quite catch but guessed wasn’t flattering to his youngest son, considering the size of the smirk on Dean’s face.  Dean turned to John who was pumping gas into the black beast of a car. 

 

“Hitting the head, Dad.” 

 

“Dean.” John called out as his son started to walk away.  Reaching into his jacket pocket John lobbed the silver flask towards Dean.  Slender fingers plucked the flask out of the air.  Green eyes flashed irritation. 

 

“Oh come on, Dad. Holy water.  Here.”  Dean looked around at the few trucks that were parked to one side.  Even though it was late at night there were still a few people wandering through the fuel pumps and into the building where the mouthwatering smell of fried whatever beckoned.  Under the buzzing fluorescent lights it was almost _too_ ordinary even for this late hour.

 

John just gave him “the look”, one he’d had to perfect recently when having to deal with his stubborn eldest son.  God knew what Dean saw in his face, but whatever it was usually resulted in Dean giving way. 

 

“Yes sir.” Sighing heavily, swinging the flask loosely between his fingers Dean strode towards the corner of the building, an arrowed sign pointing the way to the restroom.

 

Pursing his lips, John blew out a deep breath to watch the chill night air turn it into white vapour. His boy was growing up and was starting to hit that age when not everything his parent said was gospel.  The signs of rebellion were looming.

 

What was he now?  Nine? Ten? And beautiful.  So beautiful, he never thought he would say that about one of his own kids, but there was no denying it.  

 

Wherever Dean went he drew attention, even here in this nowhere truck stop, with his full pouty lips and that lock of blonde hair that just insisted on falling across his green eyes. Dean looked like a wicked choirboy.  Damn it, he was going to have to insist that Dean get a haircut no matter how much he protested.  With those bangs and that shaggy gold mane he was starting to look a bit too feminine.  A bit too like Mary and didn’t that just skewer his heart every time he saw it.

 

He tried not to rely on Dean too much, but the kid was his rock.  The way Dean looked after his baby brother, he had taken to that role like it was his personal mission in life much to John’s surprise and relief.  And even the way he looked after him, at the end of a hunt the small hand that would find its way onto his shoulder or clasp his hand tight and tell him softly “It’s okay dad.  It’s okay.”  Mature in so many ways and .. well still innocent, a little naive, in others.  Ignorant of the appreciative glances cast his way by both male and female.

 

There were times when John wondered what the hell he was doing to his kids, his boys.  He’d thought about leaving them with relatives, friends maybe, letting them have a normal life while he searched for the thing that had killed Mary, but..  knowing what was out there.  His eyes searched past the ring of light that surrounded the roadhouse out into the darkness.  He couldn’t do it, couldn’t leave them, abandon them into someone else’s care.

 

Dean was starting to ask questions.  Questions John just didn’t have an answer for. 

When could they live in a proper house? 

Sammy was old enough for school would he be able to go to the same one day in and day out? 

When could they have a normal life? 

 

He knew it was selfish of him to have them live this terrible half life.. no home but the Impala, no mom but a memory for Dean and just a faded photo for Sammy, but if he didn’t have his boys with him he was so afraid of what he would become.  They grounded him, the love that he felt for them and what they gave back to him was the closest he had to any happiness without Mary.  He couldn’t let go of that.

 

It took John a moment to realise that the waitress in the diner section was flirting with him when he went inside to pay.  Patting the piled high bun of her shocking red hair, Jeanette, her nametag read, was fluttering her thick black coated eyelashes so hard and fast, John could feel the breeze on his cheek.  Uncomfortable, he hurried away muttering his boys were waiting for him.

 

Standing in the doorway of the roadhouse, John felt his chest tighten as he looked at the Impala.  Dean wasn’t at the car.  Walking towards it, the closer he got, John could see Sammy still flaked out on the backseat but no one else. He’d been gone for a while now.  Gone too long. 

 

Even as the last thought was filtering through his mind, John was moving.  Moving fast and quiet around the building, his hand reaching behind and pulling out the gun that had been wedged into the small of his back, hidden by his brown leather jacket.

 

The restroom was empty.  John thought his heart was going to burst as he raced silently back out into the night.

 

“Dean.”  His mind screamed his son’s name over and over because after the last few years on the hunt, John knew it would be stupid calling out, even as his lungs instinctively drew deep to yell.  Forcing himself to hold his breath, John listened.  Every sense attuned to the darkness, eyes seeking, nostrils flaring for any scent.  Anything. Then..

 

The barest whisper of sound, a scraping, came from behind a couple of dumpsters further along the building.  With his heartbeat thundering in his ears he was lucky to hear it.

 

In all the years to come, John would never forget the moment he saw what was happening behind those giant metal bins.  The horror of it would be nightmare fodder for the rest of his life, a ghastly matching bookend to when he dreamed of Mary.

 

Dean, his boy Dean, was face down on the ground.  His head being pushed down hard by thick fat fingers tangled tightly in the gold locks.  Tears, blood and dirt smeared across Dean’s beloved face, his cheek mashed into the cold earth.  The one green eye that John could see was wild with terror.  The large figure that pinned Dean to the ground chuckled as the boy struggled, arm stretched out, fingers desperately clawing, trying to reach the silver flask that was leaking its contents into the earth.

 

“That’s it.  Keep moving like that.  You’re going to feel so good on the end of my dick boy.”  The crooning voice was thick and raspy with lust.  Choking on it.

 

Rage and guilt welled within John.  This thing was something he’d faced before, back in ‘Nam.  Not a creature, nothing supernatural, just a man.  A man that was trying to rape his boy.  A man that was trying to destroy something innocent and maybe that meant he really was the worst type of monster.

 

“Get the hell off my son.”  John’s throat hurt as the guttural growl that was his voice shredded his vocal chords, he was hanging on by a thread.  Primal fury and the desperate need for violence rippled through him.

 

The monster froze.  Glancing over his shoulder, he lifted his hands from where he had been pinning Dean down, holding them in the air.  The whites of his eyes flashed beneath the stained brim of his cap, locking onto the gun that was pointing straight at him.

 

“Look mister, I ain’t hurting no one.  Came out here and found him lying on the ground.  Just trying to help him up, see.”  John could only see big gleaming white teeth in the obscene grin.  _All the better to eat you with said the monster._

 

“You needed to unzip your pants for that.”  Even in the dim light, John could see the ugly angry red and purple thing that had been trying to push its way into his son.  Poking out of the monster’s jeans it was rapidly deflating, trying to disappear under the prominent belly above it.

 

“I was busting to take a piss when I saw the kid here..”  The monster’s voice trailed off when he heard the hammer being pulled back on the gun.

 

“Look mister I didn’t mean nothing by it, was just messing around.  The kid’s just so pretty I gotta bit carried away. Don’t tell me you haven’t thought about it.  I mean.. God damn.. look at his mouth.  Never seen a mouth so right for sucking cock.. Please don’t kill me.  Please.  I got kids too. Please..”  The monster was babbling and wheezing, panic edging his voice as he saw his own death in John’s eyes, the gun unwavering.

 

“Dad?”  Dean’s voice was so broken, John wanted to cry.  Didn’t realise he was until he felt wetness trickle into the grooves of his mouth.

 

Risking a glance down to look at his son, John could see that Dean’s shirt had been torn, or was it cut, down the back revealing the delicate pale contours of his spine leading to the dip and flare of his exposed buttocks.  The glistening fluid that lay there made his stomach pitch and roll violently.

 

The monster knew his time was done, saw the killing need rise and as John watched in a strangely disconnected way, he could see the monster pick up the knife that had lain hidden by his knee on the ground next to him.

 

It was all too easy to pull the trigger.  There was no doubt, no second guessing and definitely, absolutely no remorse.  Vibration rippled through his hand.  John looked at it, momentarily surprised that his trigger finger had acted so independently of his conscious mind.  A flower of red bloomed on the monster’s shirt.  It was beautiful.  Then the monster that masqueraded as a man collapsed on Dean, blood bubbling from its lips.

 

“Dad..dad.. daddeeeee.”  Dean sounded breathless.  John rushed to his boy, pushing the dead weight off Dean’s back.  Pulling him into his arms, John gathered as much of Dean as he could against him and held on.  Just held on, tears streaming down his face falling onto Dean’s hair, rocking them both back and forth.  Rushing footsteps and sharp, startled voices came and surrounded them.  John didn’t care. 

 

“I’ve got you son.  You’re safe Dean.  I’ve got you. I’m sorry.  I’m so sorry.”  He could only say that over and over, hoping that Dean could hear it.  His little boy was so still, so unresponsive in his arms.

 

“Honey, what happened?”  The voice was soft and feminine, a gentle hand touching his shoulder, John was startled into looking away from the white blood smeared face.

 

Jeanette hunkered down on her haunches, no fluttering eyelashes now, her eyes only filled with sympathy.  She looked younger than she had in the diner, the hardness evaporating in the chill night air.

 

“My boy.. he tried.. he tried to..”  John choked over the words, but they were loud enough that the small crowd gathered around could hear. 

 

They looked at the distraught man holding his beaten son, clothes torn from the small body, the small angelic face overwhelmed by huge haunted green eyes and then they looked at the carcass on the ground.  It was obvious what the monster had been intent on with his button and fly undone, the slug of flesh in its nest of pubic hair exposed to the night air.

 

A couple of men turned and spat towards the body. 

 

“Oh honey.  The police are on their way.” 

 

“I can’t stay.  I mean.. not the police.”  John couldn’t think straight, but he had skated the fine line of the law a number of times now and to have a record of any sort, criminal or victim, trailing him would be.. problematic.

 

“I see.”  Jeanette looked at him thoughtfully.  Watching as he cradled the child so gently, so tenderly.  Nodding her head as though she had come to a decision, she stood up.

 

“Come on.  You need to get going.”  Jeanette turned to the other night travellers.  “Boys none of us have seen anything tonight.  Nothing at all, right?”  Her diamond hard gaze scrutinized each and every trucker asking for and receiving an unspoken answer.

 

“Seen what Nettie?” One of the older men asked before turning away.  The small group slowly drifted away leaving John clutching Dean, Nettie standing by his side.

 

“Thank you.”  John whispered the words as he struggled out of his leather jacket with one hand.  He wrapped the soft leather around Dean, cocooning him within its warmth.

 

“You go and find somewhere to hole up with that boy of yours for a while.  He’s in shock and he’s going to need his daddy more than ever.”  Nettie patted his arm and walked with him to the corner of the building.  John nodded his thanks again, words were simply too hard at the moment, and strode swiftly to the Impala.

 

Opening the shotgun door John laid Dean across the bench seat.  Sammy was awake and peering over the top.  Eyes wide, mouth slack and open.

 

“Dad..dad what’s wrong with De?”  There was a tremor in the young voice.  “Is he dead?”

 

“Sammy.  It’s alright.  Dean isn’t dead.  He’s just sick is all.”

 

“You’re sure.  He looks dead.”  Sammy’s hazel eyes glistened, welling with tears.  He scrubbed furiously at them. “Winchesters don’t cry” De had always told him that and there was no way Sammy was going to be the first.

  
“I’m sure.  You sit back down and strap in and we’ll get going okay.”

 

“ ‘kay.”  John shut the door firmly, ignoring the flurry of movement inside the car, walking around and got into the driver’s seat.  Turning the key in the ignition he let the engine idle, the rumble automatically soothing to all the Winchester men.

 

He looked across the bench seat where his eldest son lay huddled in his jacket, too still, too quiet, golden head butting into John’s thigh.  To where his youngest son now sat against the shotgun door, Dean’s sneakered feet resting in his lap, Sammy’s chubby little hand gripping Dean’s denim clad leg just below the knee.  For a six year old there was an adult determination in his eyes as they met and held John’s.

 

John nodded in acceptance and his lips twitched as he saw Sammy let out an obviously tightly held breath in relief.  Maybe not so adult after all.  But, in this they agreed. Dean needed them, needed his family to be there for him.  John let one hand rest on the soft golden strands, fingers gently curving around Dean’s fragile jawline. 

 

The Impala roared into the night.

 


	2. Chapter 2

The swirls of mist clinging to the blacktop highway part, chased away by the Impala’s headlights.

 

John was a mess.  Grief, fear and anger so overwhelming that he felt like he was drowning in them.  Overriding them all though was the worry he felt for Dean.  They had left the godforsaken truck stop a couple of hours ago and in all that time Dean had laid quietly on the seat beside him.  It was unnerving.  Dean wasn’t quiet.  Dean was loud and bold and.. alive.  Too vivid a personality to ever be contained. 

 

Every so often those haunted green eyes would blink and tremors would rack through the small frame for that brief instant they were closed.  Then they would open, the tremors would stop and his eyes would fix on some point, on something that only Dean could see.  

 

John was dying inside.  His mind kept flashing to that moment he saw what was happening by the dumpster.  The way his beautiful boy was fighting a monster, scrabbling desperately for the flask of holy water thinking it would save him.  That’s what was killing John.  He’d taught Dean about all the things that go bump in the night but he’d failed to warn him that there are other monsters out there.  Those that are born human.  The ones that were simply men and women.

 

Sammy watched Dean, his eyes never leaving his face, his hand not moving from where it rested on his big brother’s leg.  Dad’s jacket hid most of Dean from sight, but every now and then Sammy had felt the violent trembling of Dean’s body where it lay partially across his lap.

 

Sammy was scared to death.  Dean never got sick and this was frightening.  He wasn’t sure that Dad was telling him the truth, that Dean was going to be okay.  Dean hadn’t said a word, nothing, hadn’t even looked at him and that hurt.  Sammy didn’t dare take his eyes off him just in case.. just in case the minute he wasn’t paying attention.. something bad happened to him. 

 

He couldn’t imagine a world without his De in it and for some horrible unknown reason, Sammy could feel his brother slipping away from him.

 

John considered his options.  The sign that had just zipped by told him the next town was just up ahead.  Far enough away from the truck stop where law enforcement were probably all over the scene.  Dean wasn’t good, he needed to get him somewhere warm and safe, where he could take care of him.  The only problem was money, he’d pretty much put the last of his cash into the fuel tank expecting to make it all the way to Pastor Jim’s on it. 

 

He ran his hand over the soft dark blonde head near his thigh, steering one handed.  Maybe he could trade something for a room.  A knife or a gun maybe.  He didn’t really have anything else of value, except for.. John pulled at the cord around his neck.  Mary’s ring.  It would do and Mary would forgive him he knew that, because for their sons they would do anything.

 

“Sammy, we’re going to stop in this town.  Get some rest.”  John could see his youngest son out of the corner of his eye, still watching his brother closely, but by the tense set of his shoulders listening intently.  “I need you to be strong for me and for your brother.  We have to look after Dean.”  _For a change_.

 

“Yes sir.”  Sammy sounded shaky but resolute.  John felt a wave of pride wash over him.  They may not have much but they had each other and family was what counted.

 

“Good boy.  I don’t have much cash left son, so just be prepared that it may be a little while until we can get some food.  Okay?”

 

“Oh.. Dad..I’m sorry, with Dean..I..”  Sammy reached into his pocket and pulled out a wad of cash holding it out to his father.  John was startled, it was quite thick.

 

“Sammy.. where did you get this from?”  John reached out and took it from his son’s little hand.

 

“Back there.  These men knocked on the window and.. and..I woke up.”  Sammy remembered that horrible moment, he’d been so scared.  Dean and Dad were gone and some men, strangers, had been looking at him through the car door window.  His stomach tightened into knots at the memory.  His father’s face looked grim.

 

“I didn’t open the door Dad, honest. The window was open a little bit and they pushed it in through the crack and said to tell you it was ‘for the boy’.”  Sammy’s forehead wrinkled.  “They meant Dean didn’t they?”

 

“Yes.”  Pride and relief warred inside John for the briefest moment.  Pride lost.  There was nothing he wouldn’t do for his boys and if that meant accepting charity, so be it.  There were no lines he wouldn’t cross for them.  He would give his life for either of them if need be.

 

“You did good son.” 

 

They drove into the small town, streets dark and deserted, until they saw the faint glow of neon in the distance.  The vacancy sign was lit up, that’s all John needed to see before pulling in front of the motel office.

 

“Sammy.  I need you to stay here and look after Dean while I check in.  Okay.”  John took the keys from the ignition.

 

“Yes sir.”  That was an easy order to follow as it was exactly what Sammy wanted to do anyway.  The heavy car door swung shut solidly as John walked away.  That metal ‘thunk’ was what sent Dean into trembling spasms, awful wretched noises coming from him not making any sense.

 

“De.. De..”  Sammy tried to rub his brother’s leg in comfort, but Dean couldn’t be soothed.  The whimpers and hiccuping sobs made Sammy want to cry, his brother sounded terrified.  Sammy knew the feeling.  He was almost tempted to run and get Dad, but he couldn’t leave De like this.  No way.

 

Moving Dean’s feet off his lap, Sammy slid easily into the footwell of the Impala.  Shifting so his face was close to his brother’s.  Under the glow of neon, Sammy could see Dean’s green eyes were eerily dry and unfocused.  He’d expected to see tears.

 

“Dean.. De.. it’s me.  Sammy.”  He slid a tentative hand beneath his father’s brown leather jacket, feeling like he’d stuck his hand into a warm pocket, searching for and finding Dean’s arm.  Sammy started to rub soothingly, remembering every time that Dean had done this for him and how much comfort Sammy had gotten from his brother’s touch.

 

“I’m here Dean.  It’s okay.  Dad’s gone to get a room.  He’s coming right back.”  Sammy kept repeating the words over and over.  Hunching over awkwardly and tilting his head, he let it rest on the seat in front of Dean’s, so they could look into each other’s eyes.  Sammy just stroked Dean’s arm, from shoulder to fingertip, over and over, the friction warming his palm causing tingles in the nerve endings.  Almost uncomfortable, but he didn’t stop just flexed his fingers out.

 

Sammy’s stomach clenched tightly, as his fingertips brushed against the front of Dean’s jeans, on the downward stroke. They were damp.  Sammy sucked in a harsh breath, as he suddenly recognised the scent that had been drifting up to his nostrils.  Dean had wet himself.  This was bad.  Was his brother dying?

 

Fear and grief and longing welled up in Sammy.  He wanted his big brother back.  The annoying, laughing, teasing brother who always made Sammy feel safe and loved.  He pressed his face forward, planting a small kiss on Dean’s cheek.  He couldn’t help himself he started to kiss every inch he could see of his brother’s face. 

 

In between, he begged, he pleaded for Dean to come back to him, that he needed him.  That he was scared, scared for Dean.  Slowly, oh so slowly it seemed to Sammy, Dean’s eyes seemed to focus on him.  There was an awareness now that had been seriously lacking before.  Sammy’s stomach tumbled and rolled as he watched Dean’s lips quiver.

 

“Baby boy?”  Dean’s voice was hoarse, almost unrecognisable.  It was a question and Sammy answered the only way he knew how. 

 

“Yes.. yes De it’s me.”  He mashed his lips hard against Dean’s full mouth.  So grateful, so happy that Dean was back with him.  Dean jerked back sharply, breath wheezing harshly through red puffy lips.

 

“Don’t.. don’t do that.  You can’t touch me Sammy.  You just can’t.”  Dean’s voice was unsteady as fat tears welled in the green eyes that looked at Sammy with such horror.

 

Sammy fell backwards, face burning, horrified at what he’d done.  Dean would surely hate him now.  He’d acted just like the baby Dean always called him, seeking comfort for himself instead of what he could give.  He could feel his lower lip tremble uncontrollably and had to close his eyes from the sting of unshed tears.

 

Cool, slender fingers brushed against his face. Curling to cup Sammy’s jawline tenderly.  Opening his eyes, Sammy could see Dean watching him intently as his thumb reached up to brush away a tear that had started to roll down his hot cheek.

 

“Don’t cry baby boy.  Can’t bear to see you cry.”  Dean’s voice was thick and filled with pain and just the sound of it made Sammy’s chest hurt.

 

“I’m dirty.. you can’t.. I don’t feel clean Sammy.. I don’t feel clean..” 

 

“There’ll be a shower in the room De.. don’t worry you can go first, get the hot water.. I’ll let ya.. you can clean up in there..”  Sammy didn’t understand why Dean started to laugh.. it wasn’t his throaty full on belly laugh that he normally made.. this was pitched achingly high and it.. it was ugly and hurting.  It made Sammy hurt to listen.

 

The car door swung open, the interior light flashing on.  John slid into the drivers’ seat and looked at his two boys, who both looked like they had been crying.  Eyes red rimmed, noses running.  Sammy had broken through, because Dean’s eyes weren’t dead anymore.  Filled with anguish yes, but at least they had life in them now.

 

There was such a strong bond between his boys that he’d prayed it would be enough to pull Dean out of whatever nightmare pit he had fallen into.  Thankfully, it had worked.  John had counted on Sammy to stubbornly drag his brother back to his family.  Sometimes, it scared him how alike he and his youngest son were.

 

John gathered them up and held his children to his chest.  Sammy and Dean feeling their father’s strong arms around them crumpled, letting their tears roll freely down their flushed cheeks.  He whispered reassurances, just letting his voice and the vibration of his chest soothe them.

 

Gently kissing them both on top of the head, he sat back and started the Impala and drove it the short distance to their room.  Taking their duffel bags and gear in first.  John carried Dean straight into the bathroom with Sammy trailing behind gripping the back of his shirt in a chubby little fist. 

 

He started the hot water running, knowing from experience that at most of these small cheap motels it would take a few minutes to kick in. Sitting Dean down on the edge of the bath, John turned to his youngest boy and placed his hands on his shoulders. 

 

“Sammy.  This is very important.  You’ve watched Dean laying the salt for protection before, I know you have.  Tonight, I need you to do this for me and for Dean.  Can you do it?”  John felt like his hands were great weights on Sammy’s fragile bones.  Was this how it was going to start for his youngest son?  Laying the salt.  

 

John’s stomach clenched hard.  He’d tried to protect Sammy as much as he could from knowing about the monsters out there, unfortunately, Dean had learned the hard way on the night his mother had died so there was no disguising it from him.  Sammy didn’t know that John hunted, thought that everyone protected themselves with salt and as every hunter home they visited and stayed at, Bobby’s, Pastor Jim’s even Caleb’s had them it was all totally normal to Sammy.

 

Sammy stood up straighter.  He couldn’t believe what his father was saying to him.  That he was entrusting their safety to him. 

 

“Yes sir.”

 

“Once you’ve done that.  Get ready for bed and then you can use the bathroom. Okay.”

 

“Yes sir.’  Before Sammy could turn to leave, John spoke again. 

 

“Sammy, do a good job son.”  Sammy’s hazel eyes were huge as he looked at his family.  Clouds of steam started to swirl in the small room, tendrils wrapping around his father and brother then by extension to Sammy.  He felt like he was being drawn into something, something life changing and that soon he would know the secrets that his brother and father held.

 

Dean had sat quietly as John and Sammy spoke.  The huge brown leather jacket overlapping around his body.  John knelt on the tiled floor, feeling the cold seep into his knees through his jeans.  With gentle hands he pulled Dean to his feet and tugged at the opening of the leather jacket.  When it didn’t part he realised that Dean’s fingers were locked into the folds holding it close, refusing to let go.

 

“It’s alright Dean.  I’m going to take care of you now.”  He cupped his son’s face in his big palms, not wanting to force but was insistent that Dean look up into his eyes.  Even kneeling, John was still taller than his boy. Recognition flared in green eyes that were unusually dull and John felt the leather give as Dean released his hold.

 

Dean whimpered softly as John started to undress him.  The shirt and t shirt were ruined anyway having been cut up the back with a knife and they just fell off Dean’s bony shoulders.  John just started talking, talked about anything and everything under the sun.  The Impala, Sammy, how they would go and visit Uncle Bobby soon.  As he spoke, John could see the tension start to ease in his son’s body.

 

When he realised that the jean’s he was tugging down were wet and smelled of urine, he wanted to cry.  But that wouldn’t help Dean, John clenched his jaw tight and just kept right on talking. 

 

From that point, John mentally catalogued each and every injury he found and wished to almighty God that he hadn’t killed that fucking piece of shit so quickly just so he could go and repay every cut, every bruise and every contusion that he found on Dean’s slight frame.

 

The worst were on his face.  John’s imagination led him to a dark understanding of how those marks had been made.  Bruising on either side of Dean’s jaw and lips where it had been gripped so tightly to force his mouth open.  A cut on his cheekbone leading to the start of a swollen black eye from a punch.  Blood stained the corner of his mouth where his teeth had punctured the inside of his lower lip.  There was a lump on the back of his head, flakes of blue paint stuck to the hair.  John grimaced, the dumpster had been blue, his boy’s head had been driven into the steel.  He would have to keep an eye on Dean for concussion too.

 

The delicate freckles on Dean’s light skin only emphasized the horrific bruising on his body.  Scattered bruising in groups of four or five, fingermarks, where he had been forcefully held down on his arms, shoulders and back of the neck.  There was a huge skunklike smear of dried blood striping his back.  John knew it wasn’t Dean’s though, it was from the monster when he’d collapsed on top of Dean shot through the chest.

 

John’s stomach heaved at what he had to do next.  If that bastard had penetrated there may well be internal damage.  Bleeding.  Cringing inside, John turned Dean around.  There was more bruising on his buttocks and flakes of dried fluid crusting on the dip just above them.  Was that, of all things a good sign?  Surely, there would be semen below, on his thighs, but John couldn’t be sure.

 

“Son.. Dean.. did that bast.. did that monster hurt you.. here?”  His hand hovered, he couldn’t touch.  Dean looked over his shoulder at his father, pure misery in his face and nodded.  A quiver shook his body.

 

John steeled himself for what he had to do.

 

“Dean.  I need to see.  I need to make sure.. I need to make sure that you’re not hurt real bad here.  Okay?”

 

“No.. Dad don’t please.. I don’t want you too.”  Panic made Dean’s voice pitch higher and higher with each word.  His body was starting to shake badly now and John knew he had to get him in the shower and warmed up. 

 

Drawing from deep down within himself, John shuffled through all the aspects of his character son, husband, father, man and drew on one.  John Winchester, corporal, United States Marine Corp.

 

“Are you a Winchester?”  God help him, father and son both flinched at the tone in his voice.  “Dean you are old enough now to understand that what I do.. what we do is important.  Sometimes we get hurt and sometimes we do things we don’t want to, but it needs to be done.  Dean you are a Winchester, a soldier, and when I give an order you will do it without question, without hesitation because that is how we stay alive.”

 

Dean’s eyes were wide as he looked at his father.

 

“Now answer me.  Are you a Winchester?”  John’s voice was hard and strong.  He looked into Dean’s eyes and willed that his son could find the courage to answer. 

 

“Dad?”  Tears had started to spill down from those green eyes.  “Please.. just don’t..  don’t touch me.”  John’s heart was breaking at the shattered whisper that came out of his son.  Dear God, what was he doing?  The only thing he could he decided.

 

“Winchester’s don’t cry.  Answer the question, are you a Winchester?”  Even to his ears his voice sounded harsh, would Dean realise it was because he was holding back tears?

 

Dean’s shoulders pulled back as he stood straighter, taller and his gaze barely faltered as he returned John’s.

 

“Yes sir.”  His voice cracked and Dean turned around to let his father examine the rest of his trembling body.

 

“Good boy.”  John felt sick and proud all at the same time.  Sick at the way he’d had to speak to his son to get compliance and pride that Dean had not backed down.

 

Wrapping an arm around his son’s chest, John gritted his teeth and gently touched his son’s buttocks.   Dean shivered and let out a panicked moan before it suddenly cut off.  Parting the flesh, John could see that the crease was an inflamed red, but it looked more like a friction burn.  There was no blood and the pucker of his anus was still tiny, not stretched wide or splitting.  The knot that had been his stomach for the past few hours released the tiniest fraction. 

 

John didn’t think Dean had been penetrated, but it had been damn close.  Just because the act hadn’t been completed though it was still rape, still an assault on his child’s body and worse on his mind.  This wasn’t going to go away, much as John wished it so, he would have to be strong for Dean and for Sammy.

 

“Let’s get you into the shower Dean.”  John hugged Dean briefly back into his chest and with strong gentle hands placed his boy under the rain of hot water.  Dean stood there, hands limp by his sides unmoving, just letting the water rush over him.  His hair plastered down onto his face and over his shoulders as the water weighed it down.

 

John rolled up his sleeves, grabbed a cloth and the small bar of motel soap and started to wash Dean.  All over, not missing an inch.  Making sure to wash away all the filth and fluids that had marked his son as a victim.  When the water started to cool, John turned it off, grabbing a towel from the rack and wrapped Dean in it.  With a second towel he started to rub his hair dry.

 

About to call Sammy to grab some of Dean’s sleep wear, he noticed there was a small pile of clothes right on the inside of the open doorway.  Sammy had obviously anticipated what Dean would need.  Again the feeling of pride in his children washed over John, they worked together as a team, a unit.  When one hurt, they all hurt.

 

With his son completely dry and changed into the boxers and t shirt, John gathered Dean up and took him into the other room.  Sammy was huddled under the covers, eyes huge in his tiny face.  Laying Dean down beside his brother he drew the sheets and blankets over both boys. 

 

Checking the salt lines that Sammy had laid at door and windows, satisfied that they were as secure as they could be John grabbed his duffel bag and threw it onto the other double bed.

 

“Good job Sammy.” He said, glancing across to the other bed catching his youngest boy’s eye and smiling at him.  John searched through his bag and found the opened bottle of whiskey and took a quick swig before pouring a small measure into the cap.  He pulled Dean up into a sitting position and gave him the capful of liquor.

 

“Drink that down Dean, it’ll make you feel better.”

 

“What is it?”  Demanded Sammy suspiciously, there was a protective note to his voice which pleased John.  Winchesters looking out for Winchesters.

 

“Medicine.”  Dean’s nostrils twitched as he got a whiff of the liquid in the cap.  “Drink it Dean.”  John’s tone was hard again.

 

Dean’s face was expressionless as he drank the hard liquor down.  A few coughs and splutters along the way, but it got down.  His hand wavered as he held out the cap to his father.  By the time John had resealed the bottle and turned back to his children in their bed, Dean had a slight flush riding high on his cheekbones.

 

Sammy had obviously decided tonight his role was that of comforter and protector of his big brother as he fussed around Dean making sure he was tucked in tight.  The boys snuggled down, heads sharing the same pillow, one light and one dark.  Sammy wrapped around Dean, his little body following the curve of his brother’s, spooning into him.  John pulled a chair up next to the bed, his large hand holding Dean’s small one that poked out from the covers. 

 

Dean was surrounded by his family.  His brother had his back and his father guarded his front, seating himself between the boys and the motel room door.  John had left the bathroom light on and its door partially open, allowing just enough light to see in the bedroom without stumbling into or over anything.

 

“Go to sleep boys.”  Ordered John, stifling a yawn.  Still holding Dean’s hand he lifted one leg and propped it up on the edge of the bed.  His gun was tucked into one side of the chair and the whiskey bottle was on the other.

 

Tomorrow there would be some changes.  First off Dean was getting a haircut, short back and sides.   If he bucked up about it, if John explained how longer hair can be a disadvantage.. that the other guy can use it against you, grab it in a fist and.. well he thinks Dean will see reason. 

 

Even though he’d given Dean some basic shooting lessons, turned out the kid was a natural shot, it wasn’t enough.  He didn’t want his boys to be hunters, God knows, but even on the peripheral of his life Dean and little Sammy were going to be exposed to danger.  PT drills, arms and self defence were going to be a part of his boys’ education.  His kids were not going to be vulnerable ever again, to man or monster, not on his watch.

 

The long day’s drive and all the emotional turmoil of the night’s events had exhausted John.  Knowing that he and his children were relatively safe tonight made it easier to let go and he let himself relax. Before he knew it his head was nodding and he drifted off to sleep almost certain that for a change the nightmare tonight wouldn’t be about Mary but about Dean.

 

It took longer for the boys to fall asleep.  They knew their father was by the light buzzing snore he made every now and then.

 

Sammy was struggling.  He maybe only six and he didn’t think he was dumb, but there were some things that had happened tonight that he just didn’t get.  His head felt like it was spinning.  He was a little bit scared and a little bit angry too.  Angry at his Dad.

 

After finishing the salt lines he’d got his pyjamas out and then realised his Dad hadn’t taken anything for Dean to change into.  Grabbing a light blue pair of Dean’s boxers and a star wars t shirt that had a picture of Han Solo and a wookie on it, Sammy went to the bathroom door.  He was about to knock when he heard his father’s voice, but not like he’d ever heard it before.  It was sharper, harder, more demanding and Sammy froze instinctively at the sound.

 

“Are you a Winchester?..”  Was his Dad angry at Dean for being sick?  That just wasn’t right and what did he mean that he and De were soldiers?  De was just a kid, like him.  Sammy didn’t know what to think, he couldn’t hear what De was saying it was just whispers but he certainly could hear him crying.  Dad shouldn’t be making De cry.  He was the best person Sammy knew, yeah, even better than Dad.  For starters De never left Sammy behind.

 

Just as he was about to burst into the bathroom and demand that his Dad stop making his brother cry, he heard Dean. 

 

“Yes sir.” He’d replied to something Dad had said and his voice sounded different too.  It was deeper, still upset, but maybe stronger too. Dad and Dean, they almost sounded alike.  Sammy had dropped the clothes in the doorway and run jumping into the bed and pulling up the covers shivering. 

 

Now here he was cuddled up to Dean’s back his arm draped across his brother’s waist, hand hanging loosely. A tremor shook Dean and he grabbed Sammy’s hand holding onto it so tight and dragged it up until their joined hands lay on his chest.

 

“Don’t let go baby boy.. don’t let go.”  Dean whispered the words into the pillow, but Sammy still heard them.

 

Lifting up on his other arm, Sammy bent down to brush a kiss against his brother’s cheek.  Whispering into his ear a promise.

 

“I’m here De.. I’ll never let you go.” 

 


End file.
